That’s when my pride
rang the doorbell
to my false humility:
all the guilt had piled on
the coals upon my head,
and all I knew was that
I knew full well they couldn’t see
that their intention of praise and glory,
I had turned to shame instead.
So honestly I opened up
my infected wounded pride,
and everyone saw to their surprise,
the angry child inside.
For I’d often take to beating her
when the golden idol flaked,
and giving her the third degree
for whatever was at stake.
But the mask was never guilty,
it was glad to hear applause;
whenever it would show its face,
the crowds would beg for more.
Yet I never thought to consider myself
an enemy to love;
my pride became the crowds I pleased,
not the audience above.
For as the whipping girl hides away,
and sees my hollow victories,
she shouldn’t have to bruise herself
to find the gracious me.
I know we all have better sides
that we use to gain approval,
but that little girl is really me!
How could I be so brutal?
So maybe if I’m a little kind,
and lay my weapons down,
maybe she could hold my hand
as I help straighten her crown.
